


One With Me

by RomanticComrades



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Fluff and Angst, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-09-02 13:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16787857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanticComrades/pseuds/RomanticComrades
Summary: Thrice, Ivan would ask Yao to become one with him.Thrice, Yao would refuse.Each time, it would break them both a little more.





	1. What Did You Do To Panda?!

“Ivan.”

The bear stared back at Yao with wide, unblinking eyes, its paws folded innocently in front of it.

“Ivan. I know you’re not Panda.”

Yao felt stupid now. On his way home, he had rambled incessantly about every nation and how much he hated them all, how Kirkland was becoming more of a douche by the day, and how Kiku had grown strangely distant.

“I liked him much better when he was a child, aru,” he had sighed. “Before he started acting all...weird. And speaking of weird, Braginsky – Ivan, he wants me to call him by his first name, aru, like we’re close friends or something, but I hardly know the man. Anyway, he keeps showing up everywhere. Sometimes I get home and he’s just sitting there! Eating my rice! He even pretended to be you once, Panda. I could be talking to him right now for all I kn—”

Only then had he realized.

Now, his lip slightly curled in both annoyance and amusement, Yao stood on his toes and yanked off the head of the panda suit, revealing, to no one’s surprise, a very sheepish-looking Russia.

“How did you know?” He blinked, perplexed. He emerged from the costume, somehow still bundled up in his usual winter gear. He didn’t seem to mind the heat.

“Well, pandas are not so tall.” As the nations stood face to face, Yao once again scolded himself for not noticing sooner. Ivan towered over him, so much so that Yao had had to struggle considerably to reach the head of the panda suit. “Besides, I wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice.”

“But you already have,” Ivan pointed out. He grinned, an unsettling gleam in his violet eyes.

“Oh, wipe that smile off your face,” Yao snapped, but his irritation only made Ivan’s smile widen. 

“Say, dinner should be ready about now, _da_?”

“Dinner!” Yao practically shrieked. “You think I’m going to invite you into my house? You have stalked me for _months_ , Ivan, and I still do not understand why you won’t leave me alone!”

“You don’t have to invite me in, but I’ll still join you.”

“I’ll lock the door.” Yao backed slowly away.

“The magic metal pipe of pain is very useful for breaking down doors, _da_?” Ivan smiled sweetly.

“You…!” Yao stared at Ivan, speechless. The Russian man looked right back, his smile unchanging.

After a long moment of silence, Yao sighed and turned and continued his way back home.

He followed an overgrown trail through the isolated bamboo thicket. Though his cities were ever-growing, China made sure to preserve the small pockets of nature on the outskirts of every metropolis. Being close to nature calmed him. Surrounded by beauty, he was able to forget about the chaos his people were slowly descending into, if only for a few moments.

It was quiet here, save for Ivan. He could hear the Russian man strolling along behind him; the earth seemed to crunch like snow beneath his feet at his every stride. He was content to be ignored, humming a whimsical tune under his breath, something from a ballet, perhaps.

Yao didn’t mind him much when he was like this. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure why everyone else was so terrified of Ivan. True, there was something _off_ about him, but the other nations weren’t exactly normal, either.

Soon, Yao found himself getting out of breath. A chill crept beneath his skin, spreading through his veins like a frigid tide rising from the winter sea. A familiar ache returned to his chest, throbbing with a steady pulse. He cursed under his breath. _Not now. Not in public._

“You’re shivering,” Ivan noted. “Are you cold?”

Yao’s already leisurely pace had slowed considerably, and he and Ivan were now walking side by side. Ivan had stopped, brow furrowed in concern as he peered at Yao. It was still summer, the setting sun bathing the air in a dry, almost visible heat, yet the smaller nation had unconsciously wrapped his thin arms around himself as though braving through the worst of Siberian blizzards.

“I’m fine, aru.”

Ivan persisted. “If you are cold, you should tell me. I’m Russian—I know all there is to know about the cold, _da_.”

“Why would I be cold?! It’s thirty degrees out here, aru,” Yao snapped. He was growing more irritable by the second, and he felt the smallest twinge of remorse for lashing out at Ivan. _Why should I care if I offend_ him _?_ he thought indignantly. He began walking again, trying not to seem so exhausted.

For the rest of the journey, a stiff silence hung in the air.

After what felt like hours, the path lead the two men to China’s house. As he pushed the door open, Yao realized that he’d forgotten to lock it again. No wonder Ivan always managed to get in.

“You can come in, I guess. There's _xiao long bao_ in the kitchen, aru.” 

Before Ivan could reply, Yao had already run off. “You can wait for me there!” he called.

He dashed into his bedroom and grabbed the long, decorated pipe resting on his bedside table. His hands trembled as he filled the pipe-bowl and lit the opium lamp. Almost instantly, the cloying smoke invaded his lungs, choking him from the inside. Finally, he could breathe again.

Only then did he begin to regret his decision.

The drug would not wear off for hours, and Ivan was bound to notice. Yao had been doing everything he could to keep his addiction from the other nations. That bastard Kirkland knew, of course, and so did his crony, France, but that was it. Russia was growing stronger, and China could not afford to let him know that he had become the feeble, sickly nation he was. Yao squeezed his eyes shut, vainly attempting to silence his thoughts.

Then the high kicked in and Yao ceased to think at all.


	2. The Forgotten Promise

There was something wrong with Yao.

He had come into the plainly set table with a wide, vacant smile, served dinner, and sat down not across from his guest, as was the custom, but right next to Ivan, as though they were the closest of friends. His earlier hostility was gone, replaced with a dazed sort of euphoria. For once, Ivan found that he was not the strangest person in the room, and he said as much to Yao.

“Strange? I’m not acting strange. I’m just happy that you’re here, aru,” he replied cheerfully with a mouth full of food. “Living alone is so lonely, aru. Kiku never visits anymore. That asshole Kirkland took Hong Kong. Mei...well...she’s struggling too, aru. She shouldn’t have to see me like this.” Yao said all this with a glassy smile, not quite looking at Ivan. “So it’s nice, aru, not eating alone for once. I always say, there is no point in making good food if you have no one to share it with, aru.”

The food was certainly good. As he listened to the Chinese man ramble on, he found himself popping the juicy pork-stuffed buns into his mouth almost involuntarily. As Yao’s tangent grew more and more nonsensical, Ivan stopped listening and just stared.

When Russia was still young, he had seen China in person for the first time, though that had not been his name back then. Ivan remembered sitting in the snow after another lost battle, arms wrapped around his knees, shivering as silent sobs racked his body. He remembered the carriage that had come into view, carried on the shoulders of four men. He remembered how it had stopped in front of him...

* * *

_The Celestial Empire drew back the curtains and peered out curiously at the tiny nation. Ivan stopped crying immediately and simply gaped at the foreign man. Garbed in golden robes that distinguished him as royalty, an ornate headpiece shielded his delicate features from the biting wind. Ivan could not stop staring at his eyes. They seemed to glow, like a flame reflected on the surface of a copper coin, and they held so much warmth in them, more warmth than Ivan had ever known._

_“Are you alright?” he asked, brow slightly furrowed in concern. His voice was soft, but firm. “What is your name?”_

_Ivan realized that he was still sitting on the ground. The older nation extended a hand, and tentatively, Ivan took it. His body aching, he pulled himself to his feet, drawing himself to his full height. Even then, he must have looked laughably small—a trembling little nation wrapped in a scarf too big for him._

_“Da, I am fine, and my name is Russia,” he declared as confidently as he could. Yao smiled, and Ivan was at a loss for words again. He realized that he was still gripping onto the older nation’s hand, trying to hold onto his warmth. Reluctantly, he let go._

_“It is my honour to meet you, Russia. You may call me the Celestial Empire.” Yao gave him a small nod in greeting. “I hope you are not badly hurt.”_

_Mutely, Ivan started to shake his head before some unknown urge prompted him to blurt out, “I may have lost this fight, but I won’t lose next time, or ever again! One day I’ll see you again, Celestial Empire, and I’ll be the strongest nation in the world, even stronger than you.”_

_Stunned by his boldness, Yao stared at the tiny nation, lips slightly parted, and Ivan immediately flushed, ready to take back what he had said. But then Yao laughed, a musical sound springing from a crack in his mask of composure. “Well, little Russia, when that happens, I hope we can be friends.”_

_The carriage moved towards the distance, fading into the blur of the snow. The Celestial Empire was gone as quickly as he had appeared, and Ivan was left alone, his frostbitten lips spread in the widest smile._

* * *

_He would go on to fight more battles, and he would lose more than he won. He would get hurt and beaten time and time again, and through it all the winter would rage on. Sometimes his sisters would be with him, but more often they would vanish for years at a time._

_But he would grow stronger. He would grow used to pain, and begin to embrace it. Though he still hated the cold with every fibre of his being, he learned to use it to his advantage. And though his mind was slowly broken over the years, though he was far from the naive little boy Yao had met centuries ago, Ivan never forgot the vow he had made._

_And when he was sure that he was strong enough, he began to search for the Celestial Empire._

_They didn’t call him that anymore, Ivan learned. He was China now, and these days, he went by Wang Yao. So Ivan travelled south to see him, the man who had inspired him to fight all those years ago without saying much at all._

_Yao wasn’t hard to track down. Ivan first found him in a street side diner, complaining about the food to an uneasy looking waiter._

_“This is too bland, aru,” he was saying, gesturing dramatically at the bowl of soup in front of him. “Tell the chef it could use more ginger.”_

_Ivan watched the Chinese man with growing intrigue. He had certainly changed, just as Ivan expected. He wore no elaborate robes and no headpiece, his hair falling to the small of his back in a simple but immaculate braid. There was no entourage of servants surrounding him—only a couple of pandas. When Yao stood to leave the restaurant, Ivan realized that the older nation stood several inches shorter than him. No longer was he the distant, untouchable giant Ivan once thought he was._

_But that didn’t make Ivan any less afraid to approach him._

_Instead he followed the Asian nation as he made his way through town. As afraid as he was to get close to him, he couldn’t bear to let him out of his sight, either._

_But, seeming to sense that he was being followed, Yao turned around suddenly, his eyes meeting Ivan’s._

_Once again, Ivan was rendered speechless; from a distance, Wang Yao had born little resemblance to the Celestial Empire Ivan once idolized, but his eyes? His eyes hadn’t changed a bit._

_“_ Privyet _,” Ivan breathed._

_His voice, tainted with an unfamiliar accent, caught Yao’s attention. He studied the blond, violet-eyed foreigner, fascinated._

_“_ Ni hao, _” he greeted, though his eyes betrayed confusion. “Have we met?”_

_Realization hit Ivan like an icy gust of wind, with a brutality that threatened to dislodge his heart from his chest. I’m a stranger to him._

“Nyet, _I don’t think so,” he lied. Wrapping his scarf more tightly around his throat, Ivan slipped back into the crowd, leaving Yao in the middle of the road, alone and utterly mystified._


	3. The First Proposal

Ivan’s mind snapped back into the present. He reached for another bun, only for his chopsticks to hit the empty bottom of the basket. Had he really finished all that food?

“...And that’s why food is the solution to all of the world’s problems, aru.” Yao was just finishing his speech, flourishing his arms as though expecting applause.

“I like you a lot more when you’re like this, Yao,” Ivan murmured without thinking.

“Hm?” Yao looked up with unfocused eyes, his pupils shrunk to sharp dots. Ivan knew with certainty then that Yao would not remember this conversation come tomorrow.

“You’re less angry, less suspicious of me, _da_. You talk more, and I can learn more about you without having to break into your house or pretend to be Panda. I like that,” he continued. Yao didn’t reply; he simply stared at Ivan as though he had said the most fascinating thing in the world. 

“I wish you would be like this even without the opium.”

Even in his muddled state, Yao visibly flinched at the mere mention of the word. “Don’t talk about that,” he mumbled. “I don’t want to talk about the opium.” 

“We won’t talk about it, then.” Ivan didn’t want to upset Yao now. That would happen later, he knew—one way or another, he always managed to scare other nations away —but not so soon.

Yao was quiet for a moment. Then, leaning forward and resting his chin on the palm of his hand, he spoke again. “Tell me something about you.”

Ivan blinked. “I don’t think you’ll remember anything I say.”

“I always remember.”

"...Always?" Ivan blinked doubtfully.

Sensing his hesitation, Yao gave Ivan’s arm an insistent tug. “I’ve told you so much about me, but I hardly know anything about you. I know that you like to stalk me and that you carry around a metal pipe. I know that the other countries are scared of you, and you _are_ kind of scary, aru. But I think it’s because of how quiet you are. No one knows why you do the things you do, and maybe if they did, they would be less afraid of you. So...just tell me one thing about you. Anything.”

But what could Ivan tell him? Was there anything he could say without scaring Yao off like he did other nations?

“I like sunflowers.”

“Sunflowers? Those are pretty, aru,” Yao grinned. “See? That’s not weird and creepy. What do you like about them?”

Something about his fervent enthusiasm was infectious. Less tense now, Ivan loosened his scarf a little and continued. “When I look at the sunflowers growing around my place, they make me feel warm, even though it’s always cold there.” As he spoke, his face began to light up with a childlike grin. “Someday, I want to live somewhere warm, where I can lie down in the middle of a field of sunflowers and forget about the cold. I think...that would make me happy, _da_.”

For a moment, Yao said nothing. Then, in his drug-induced stupor, he suddenly threw his arms around the larger man. Ivan froze. His sisters were the only ones who had ever dared to get close enough to him to hug him. Now he was afraid to move even slightly, afraid that Yao would pull away.

 _You remind me of sunflowers_ , he wanted to tell Yao. _Or maybe it’s that sunflowers remind me of you._

“That’s beautiful, aru!” the smaller exclaimed when he finally let go. “I hope you can find that place, Ivan. I think you deserve to be happy, aru.”

His statement caught Ivan off guard. He felt a stab of guilt, small but impossible to ignore. “Why do you think that?”

Instead of answering the question, Yao looked off into the distance. “You know, Mei likes sunflowers too. She used to paint pictures of them when she was little. She hasn’t visited for a while, so I don’t know if she still paints, but…” His voice trailed off, and his dazed smile, previously fixed to his face, wobbled slightly.

“Anyway, I always preferred peonies. Sunflowers are beautiful, but peonies are strong, aru. They endure freezing winters and bloom in the spring, healthier and more beautiful than ever.” A faraway look in his eyes, he glanced up at Ivan. “You reminded me of a peony, you know, the first time I saw you.”

The chopsticks, which Ivan had forgotten he was holding, slipped from his fingers and dropped onto the table with a clatter. “You still remember?”

“I always remember,” the older nation repeated with a chuckle. “You were a mere child then, lost and alone in the winter. Many young nations do not survive the cold, but you...there was so much determination in your eyes. I knew it would take more than snow to kill you.” As he looked up at Ivan’s face, his eyes, though glazed, seemed to hold a faraway clarity. “The cold really has made you stronger, hasn’t it? You’re certainly much stronger than I am, aru, just like you promised.” If Yao was at all resentful, he hid it well.

 _You’re certainly much stronger than I am._ It was the validation Ivan had been waiting for, yet the fulfillment he should have felt was nowhere to be found. Yes, he was stronger than China now, but China was growing weaker by the second, slowly losing to a drug that would kill him from the inside.

And, inconceivable as it may be, watching Yao suffer gave Ivan no satisfaction.

A thought occurred to him and, before he could push it aside, he heard himself voice it.

“Become one with me.”

Startled, Yao jerked his head towards the Russian nation. “W-what?”

“You said that I’m stronger than you now, _da_?” Ivan reached out to take Yao’s hand. He noticed with alarm that it was cold. “Wang Yao, you used to be the most powerful country I knew. If you become one with me, you can be strong again, like you were. Don’t you want that?” Yao opened his mouth to reply, but Ivan wasn’t finished. “Don’t you want to be the Celestial Empire again?”

Yao froze. “The Celestial Empire,” he repeated slowly. “Yes, that’s what they used to call me, aru. I...really was strong back then. 

“So you’ll do it?” Ivan tried not to sound so hopeful, so desperate for Yao to say yes. For a moment, it seemed like he really would. 

But in a fleeting moment of lucidity, a shadow flickered across the older nation’s face. Yao stumbled abruptly to his feet, struggling to keep his balance as he gripped the coarse wood of his chair.

“You should go.”

Ivan rose shakily. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked, knowing already that he had.

“No, I know you mean well.” Yao smiled again, but it was too strained, too forced. “But I need you to leave now. There’s something I have to do.”

“But—”

“Goodbye, Braginsky.”

The last trace of a smile faded from Ivan’s face. He had never heard Yao sound so...cold. Wordlessly, he watched the Chinese man leave the dining room, wobbling slightly at every step.

Moments later, he heard a crash, followed by a rapid string of foreign curses.


	4. A Fallen Nation

“Did you break anything important?” Ivan called.

“I’m fine!” Yao yelled back indignantly. He winced as he found his feet, groaning as his joints protested. “Why are you still here?”

“Did you trip on the stairs?”

A guilty silence. Then, an irritated sigh. “I’m not so old that I can’t walk up stairs!”

“Do you need help?”

“Go home!”

He didn’t trust Ivan. He couldn’t trust Ivan.

Step by step, Yao climbed. He was beginning to regret moving into a two-story house. The drug hadn’t quite worn off yet, but the little clarity he had made him realize just how graceless he must look as he all but hobbled towards his room. The ground still seemed to be rocking from side to side beneath his feet.

Then he was in his room. He lowered himself next to his bed and reached beneath it, groping blindly for something. His hand found the smooth, polished wood of the chest and, with a tug, slid it out from under the bed. With what remained of his strength, Yao lifted the chest and rose to his feet.

The chest was small, but expensive; in fact, it was probably one of the most expensive things Yao had left. Dragons were carved into the wood, delicate and lifelike, their serpent-like bodies wrapped almost protectively around the chest, which was, of course, full of opium. Weeks ago, Yao had clung to the opium desperately, hating it with every fibre of his being as Kirkland barged into his house and swept away Yao’s belongings. The same opium had weighed Yao down, leaving him powerless to save Hong Kong when Kirkland took him, too.

Yet Yao couldn’t fight. He couldn’t protect his people, his dignity. He didn’t have the strength, but most importantly, he didn’t have the willpower. He just kept taking a drag after drag of the accursed drug, as though somehow, forgetting about his problems could make them truly disappear.

He had become weak.

And Ivan had known that. Of course he had. Why else would have come?

With a sudden, infuriated roar, Yao hurled the chest into the fireplace. As the wood burst into flames, he could have sworn he saw faces in the fire. Kirkland, Bonnefoy, Beilschmidt, Vargas, _Braginsky_ , all of them laughing.

_You’ve become so miserable, I almost pity you._

_Hon hon, and I thought_ I _was pathetic._

_Become one with me, China. I’ll take good care of you._

The voices surrounded him, overwhelmed him. Swirls of smoke clawed at his throat, the sickeningly sweet smell dulling his senses once again.

 _It’s strange,_ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~he would later remember thinking as the fire licked at the dragons carved onto the chest. _They seem to be moving._

As the last piece of opium went up in flames, China collapsed.

* * *

The door creaked open and Ivan stepped cautiously inside Yao’s room. He noticed the smell before he saw the nation crumpled on the floor, dangerously close to the fireplace. 

Ivan stumbled back, his throat suddenly dry. When he was much younger, he had seen his share of fallen nations. Pale, lifeless, messes of tangled limbs sprawled across the white wasteland, they were nations that had been not strong enough to survive another Siberian winter. 

Yao couldn’t have fallen. China...China was stronger than that.

Wasn’t he?

Ivan slowly approached Yao, breath held. He crouched down next to him and brushed aside the dark curtain of hair that obscured his face. The older nation’s face was colourless, a few loose strands of hair sticking to his sweat-slicked brow. His cheek was cold to touch.

Sick to his stomach with fear, Ivan felt close to tears. 

To his infinite relief, when he held Yao closer, Ivan could feel his shallow breath against his neck, could hear the slow but steady beat of his heart. He was alive.

“Then you shouldn’t be lying on the floor like a dead person, _da_?” Ivan murmured, more to himself than to Yao. As gently as he knew how to be, he cradled the smaller nation in his arms and lifted him, carrying him the short distance to his bed.

Much to his chagrin, he let go of Yao a bit too abruptly, all but dropping him onto the bed. The nation’s eyes snapped open with a yelp.

Ivan never had learned what it meant to be gentle.

* * *

“What…?”

Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the opium smoke he had inhaled, but Yao could barely form coherent thoughts. He was hazily aware that he had just been, for some reason, _dropped_ , that Ivan should not be in his bedroom, nor in such close proximity to him. He was also somewhat aware that he was cold, though he didn’t realize that he was trembling.

“Leave me alone,” he grumbled, his speech slightly slurred. “How many times do I have to tell you, aru…”

He heard a rustling coming from Ivan and tensed automatically. For a moment, Yao thought that he was pulling out a weapon. In his vulnerable state, he could vaguely recall stories of the things Russia did when provoked, and he was in no condition to fight off the larger man.

Instead, something soft was wrapped around him. Startled, Yao ran his fingers across the worn, slightly scratchy fabric, then pulled it closer. It smelled like gunpowder and vodka, but he hardly minded. It was warm.

Ivan watched as Yao drifted out of consciousness again, the rise and fall of his chest slowing to a steady rhythm. _He’s smiling a little_ , Ivan noticed. _He’s not so angry anymore._

* * *

Waking up was a painful process, one Yao had grown to dread. It was always the cold that roused him, before he became aware of his own violent shivering. Then came the pain, an insistent throb that seemed to course through his veins, making every part of his body ache with protest. 

Usually, he would reach instinctively for the pipe that lay by his bedside, forgetting for the billionth time how the drug would hurt him. _Scratch the itch and take off half the skin while doing it_ , Hong Kong might have said, cynical as ever. 

But this time there was no pipe. After blindly groping at the bedside table to no avail, Yao opened his eyes, confused and frustrated. 

A voice broke him out of his daze. “You’re awake!”

Yao screamed.

Sitting only a few feet away, Ivan let out a soft, delighted laugh. “Good, you’re acting normal again. You were saying some strange things in your sleep, so I was wondering if I should slap you until you wake up or something like that. That’s what Natalya does to me sometimes.” 

In the dark, Russia’s presence was even more unsettling. His eyes emitted a dim, violet glow, and he somehow managed to cast a shadow despite the absence of light.

“I thought I told you to leave!” Yao exclaimed. He had repeated himself so many times that he couldn’t be bothered to get angry.

“ _Da_ , you did.”

“Then why are you still here, aru?!”

Ivan paused to think. “Well, I didn’t want you to hurt yourself again. You could barely walk up the stairs earlier, _da_. I was worried.”

Yao flushed. “You’re being an idiot, aru. I could walk up the stairs just fine.”

The events of the previous night were coming back to him through the curtain of fog. Ivan was here, they had dinner, and…

“The opium!” Muttering a curse under his breath, Yao sat up with a start, casting a frantic glance towards the fireplace, whose dying embers emitted a weak glow in the dark. Just as he had feared, the chest of opium had been reduced to ash. Trying to control his panicked breathing, he looked around desperately, hoping vainly for some miracle. Maybe there was some opium left, stored somewhere else, and he had simply forgot. He was prepared to search the whole house, if only he had the strength to get out of bed.

But of course there wasn’t any. In his drug-induced stupor, Yao had made a decision. The right decision, but nevertheless a foolish one.

“Yao...are you okay?” Ivan frowned. All colour seemed to have vanished from Yao’s face. 

Yao opened his mouth to answer, only to find that the room seemed to be spinning. Suddenly and without warning, he crumpled, barely giving Ivan enough time to catch him before his head could hit the wooden headboard.


	5. Something Strange

Yao slept fitfully for the rest of that night, plunging in and out of consciousness with abrupt jerks of his head. Nightmares, nonsensical yet horrible, plagued him, as did the persistent stabbing pain in his chest. The only thing keeping him from clawing at himself in desperation was Ivan, his arms wrapped firmly around the smaller nation. In his semi-delirium, Yao found himself clinging to the Russian in turn.

When the first ray of light finally peeked through the window, Yao woke again, this time with no desire to return to his fragmented sleep. Wincing from the light, he tried to sit up, only to realize that Ivan was still holding him in a possessive—or perhaps just protective—embrace. Noticing that he was still gripping onto the scarf that Ivan had wrapped around them both, Yao started to untangle himself, then hesitated.

The Russian man was still asleep, as eerily silent in his slumber as he was when he was in his wake. His soft features seemed somehow harder in sleep; he wore the solemn, even grim, expression of a seasoned veteran. Without his usual smile, one might have mistaken him for someone else.

Yao had a sudden urge to comfort him, to brush aside the disheveled strands of silvery hair that fell over his eyes, to see the smile return to his face. He did not fully understand his sudden fondness for Ivan; he had grown to mistrust the European powers, and here was one of them, sleeping in his own bed.

 _Maybe I’m just lonely_ , Yao reflected. _It’s true. I am lonely. I haven’t had the company of another country in...how long has it been, decades?_

He spent a few moments longer deliberating whether or not Ivan could be trusted. He’d already lashed at him more than once thanks to his preconceived notion that Russia was ruthless and cruel, that he gripped smaller nations in an iron fist and delighted in their suffering. That was what the others had said about him, but so far Yao had been proven wrong on numerous occasions.

Another chill gripped his body and shook him, cutting off his train of thought. The violent trembling must have roused Ivan, because when Yao glanced at Ivan again, his eyes had flown open and were darting nervously around the room.

As their gazes met, both countries were overcome by a sudden wave of shyness. Neither spoke; they simply lay there, one still holding the other. Yao felt heat rise to his cheeks, and Ivan looked slightly lost, perhaps afraid that, now that he was sober, Yao would be upset with him again for having stayed the night.

“Do you still want me to leave?” he asked, just as Yao blurted, “Do you want breakfast?” The latter, releasing a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, let out an awkward laugh, while Ivan simply stared, clearly not expecting the invitation. 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to,” he said softly. He finally freed Yao from his arms, though he did so with clear reluctance.

“Are you sure?” Yao blinked. All of last night, this man had refused to leave despite Yao’s insistence. Now, all of a sudden, he didn’t want to stay. _Is he_ trying _to torture me?_

“ _Da,_ it’s about time I went home, anyway. My sisters might be worried.”

“Oh, alright.” Yao offered an understanding smile as he rose to his feet, though it was tinged with disappointment. “I think you left your panda suit somewhere downstairs, aru. I’ll go get it for you.”

* * *

The walk back from Yao’s house seemed longer than the walk there.

Yao lived miles from the city. It was strange to Ivan, who couldn’t imagine living alone out of choice. Ever since he was small, he’d dreamed of living in a big city, surrounded by people. People who were loud, who joked and bickered and fought over trivial nonsense. But for most of his life, his home had been vast and empty, and the people who were there hated each other with a cold, silent fury. It was only in the past couple of centuries that his cities began to grow. Now he could take walks through the crowds of Moscow or St. Petersburg, picking up snippets of conversation as he went. He never joined in, never knew how, but it eased his loneliness a little to pretend.

Yao didn’t seem like the kind of person who would prefer to be alone. True, Ivan hardly knew him, but spend enough time stalking someone in a panda suit, and one will get a rather thorough judgement of his character. Yao used to frequent the city, spending hours in the market examining the trifles and trinkets on sale, or visiting streetside restaurants late at night and ordering everything on the menu. Everyone seemed to know him, some as Wang Yao, most as just China. Ivan often watched in fascination at how they welcomed him. They invited him over to their tables and drank with him as though they were old friends, and perhaps they were.

When the first shipments of opium came, none of this changed. Yao hadn’t known what the drug would do to him—perhaps Ivan should have warned him, but still he was afraid to approach him. But as he slipped deeper and deeper into addiction, as England’s true intentions became clear, Yao stopped visiting the city. He rarely even left his house, only ever speaking to his pandas.

And now, Ivan, too.

Ivan couldn’t help but wonder about Yao’s sudden change in attitude towards him. Last night, he had been adamant that Ivan leave as soon as possible. Ivan had seen genuine fear in his eyes, the same fear he saw in the other nations he had tried to approach in the past. Just now, in that awkward moment of prolonged eye contact in his bed, Yao’s face had conveyed a myriad of emotions, none of which Ivan could decipher. He knew, however, that fear had not been one of them.

The only countries who weren’t afraid of Ivan were his sisters, and Ivan wasn’t even sure if that could be said of Iryna, who, despite her constant reassurance that she did love Ivan, often ran from him. And when it came to Natalya, Ivan was the one who ran.

Was it possible that Yao, too, no longer feared Ivan, and perhaps, to a degree, even liked him? The notion made little sense to Ivan, though he felt a small, inexplicable explosion of joy when it came to him. 

_No, don’t be ridiculous._

His stomach grumbled. He was beginning to regret declining Yao’s offer to stay for breakfast. At the time, he had been so overwhelmed with strange feelings towards Yao that he couldn’t bear to stay in his house for another moment. But now that the pounding of his heart had slowed to its regular pace, he had to admit that he wouldn’t have minded some more of Yao’s cooking.

“Ivan!”

Strange. Even now he seemed to be hearing Yao’s voice. Such was the effect of loneliness and isolation, he supposed.

“Hey! Ivan!”

The voice seemed to be getting closer. If this was indeed a hallucination, it was a vivid one. _Perhaps my sisters are right, and I am going crazy._

_“IVAN BRAGINSKY! WILL YOU SLOW DOWN!”_

Ivan stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. Somehow, he was still surprised when he saw Yao, red-faced and breathless from running. When he saw Ivan stop, the Chinese man all but collapsed from exhaustion.

“You...walk...fast...” he panted.

“What’s wrong?” Ivan wasn’t sure whether to be excited or worried. His expression seemed to convey both.

“You…” Yao gave himself a moment to recover. “You forgot this, aru.”

He tossed the scarf to Ivan, who caught it with astonishment. “I can’t believe...I never go anywhere without that scarf.” 

“Well, you took it off last night, aru. I figured you’d want it back.”

“ _Spasibo_." Suddenly unsure of what else to say, Ivan wrapped the scarf back around his neck. 

“Listen, Ivan, I...I never got a chance to thank you for staying with me last night, aru.” He swallowed, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve as he spoke. “I might have done something stupid or hurt myself if you hadn’t been there, so...thanks.”

“No problem,” Ivan grinned, vaguely aware of the fluttering in his stomach, the rapid rhythm of his heart. “I’m usually the one people are trying to stop from doing stupid things, _da,_ so it’s a nice change.”

Yao laughed. Ivan couldn’t help but think his laugh was the most beautiful sound in the world.

“You’re a very strange country, Ivan Braginsky,” he said. “And maybe I’ve been spending too much time with you, aru, because I think I’m about to do something strange myself.”

Ivan watched, speechless with a mixture of confusion and anticipation, as Yao stood on the tips of his toes, much like he had yesterday when he unmasked Ivan in his panda disguise. This time, he laced his fingers behind Ivan’s neck and, with aggressive shyness, pulled himself to Ivan’s lips.

Ivan’s mind went completely blank, leaving him frozen in place as Yao’s lips grazed his. The kiss fell as gently as the first snowflake of the winter, and ended as quickly as the snowflake would melt. When Yao pulled away to look up at Ivan, the Russian felt his heart pounding so quickly he could hardly breathe.

“Come visit me again when you can, okay?” The corners of Yao’s lips lifted into a timid, hopeful smile that made him look much, much younger than he was. “You don't have to bring the panda suit.”

It took Ivan a moment to remember how to speak. “I will,” he finally said. 

Yao brightened. “Then I’ll see you soon, I hope.”

He turned and began the long journey back home. Ivan stood silently and watched as Yao’s silhouette retreated into the distance, until once again the thicket was silent and still.

Only then did he bring his fingers to his lips, allowing what had happened to sink in. Wang Yao had kissed him. _Wang Yao had kissed him._

For the first time in his life, Ivan Braginsky felt himself blush. 


	6. A Day Apart

Ivan would have returned to Yao’s place right away if he could. But, of course, he had to face his sisters first.

As he had expected, Natalya had been furious. She had charged at him the moment he opened the door to the apartment they shared, brandishing a small knife, which was stained a suspicious red. With a yelp, Ivan had retreated from the doorway as swiftly as an Italian in battle and slammed the door back shut, nearly knocking it off the hinges in the process.

This situation was rather unusual; Ivan usually locked himself _inside_ the apartment to shield himself from his sister’s wrath. Cowering on the other side of the door now, he could see the deep scratches Natalya had left in the otherwise unmarred wood. He shuddered.

“Why are you hiding from me, big brother?” Natalya’s high, breathy voice slipped through the cracks in the walls. “I wouldn’t try to run away from me if I were you, big brother. You do know how easy it is for me to just open this door, right? You’ve got a _lot_ of explaining to do!”

Ivan’s voice came out a whimper as the door swung open once again. “Just put down that knife!”

“Knife?” Natalya seemed confused before she remembered the bladed utensil she was holding. “Oh! This? Bah! This is a kitchen knife. I was just using it to help Iryna make chop vegetables for borscht _._ I couldn’t hurt anyone with this little thing if I wanted to!” To prove her point, she tossed her knife into the air and caught it by the blade. Ivan flinched. “God, you can really be a _trus_ sometimes, big brother. Has anyone told you that?”

“ _Da._ You have. A lot.” Feeling slightly embarrassed now, he stepped past his sister into the apartment. The door closed behind him.

Just then, Iryna emerged from the kitchen. “Ivan! _Solnyshko,_ you’re home!” Upon seeing her brother, she ran to him, kissed him, and wrapped him in a tight hug.

“Where have you _been_?” The moment she let go, she launched into what Ivan knew would be a long lecture, though they both knew she couldn’t stay angry for long. “I understand that sometimes you like to go out and spy on other countries, but you know you’re always supposed to come back home before midnight, _chy ne tak_? You can’t keep scaring us like this—why are you just standing there? Go to the kitchen and sit down, the borscht is almost ready. And why are you still wearing your coat? It’s summer! Anyway, we were so worried, Natalya and I. I thought you’d gotten attacked by Mongolia or the Ottoman Empire or something!”

“Big sister, I’m not a micronation anymore,” Ivan protested, but he let Iryna make a fuss over him as he shrugged off his jacket. He started to unwind his scarf from his neck, then decided against it; he noticed that it had kept Yao’s scent. “Besides, Mongolia hasn’t attacked anyone in centuries. You shouldn't worry about me, _da._ ”

“But your fight with the Ottoman Empire was only, what, twenty, thirty years ago?” Natalya chimed in. She had returned to the kitchen and was scraping freshly chopped vegetables into the pot of simmering red broth on the stove. “If only you’d listen to me, big brother. If we become one, you won’t have to worry about any of these countries, because I’ll be there to protect you!” To prove her point, she launched a violent assault on a couple of beets. Ivan glanced at her uneasily.

“You still haven’t told us where you were last night, Ivan.” Having succeeded in dragging her brother to the kitchen and sitting him down, Iryna cast a curious sideways glance towards him.

Ivan responded unintelligibly under his breath.

“What was that?” Natalya perked a brow, her expression lined with suspicion.

“South,” Ivan mumbled.

“South…?” Iryna blinked, before her eyes lit up with realization. “So you were at the Qing Empire—China’s place again?” She knew by Ivan’s sudden reluctance to meet her eyes that she was right.

“Why do you keep stalking him?” Natalya stopped attacking the vegetables and crossed her arms over her chest. She kept a loose hold on the knife, the blade of which was now stained suspiciously red. “What’s so special about him? Do you like him more than us, big brother?”

“I wasn’t _stalking_ him,” Ivan protested. _Well, not the entire time_. “We had dinner together. It was...nice.”

“And you stayed overnight?” Ivan didn’t have the courage to look at his little sister, but even Iryna seemed surprised.

“Whatever you’re thinking, that’s not what happened!” His cheeks burning, Ivan explained, with very little eye contact, to his sisters how Yao had overdosed on opium and passed out, and how he had stayed with the Chinese nation overnight to make sure he was okay. He left out the kiss; he was determined to treasure the memory with an almost reverent secrecy, as though by sharing it, he would taint the magic it held. 

When he finished talking, both of his sisters stared at him, stunned. Even Iryna couldn’t soften her shock. “Why, Ivan, I’ve never heard you speak so fondly of anyone before.”

“So China’s name is Yao,” Belarus noted pointedly. She had turned her face away from Ivan. He could only imagine her expression.

“On a human-name basis already?” Iryna teased.

“Don’t make fun of me!” Ivan protested weakly, shrinking into his scarf as though it would help him disappear.

Iryna studied Ivan with sudden interest. His cheeks were now dusted with a light blush, as though flushed from the cold. But it was the middle of the summer, so that couldn’t be it. 

She gave her little brother a small, knowing smile, and said no more.

* * *

“It’s good to have you back, Panda.”

The pudgy cub had somehow found its way back to Yao. When he was making his way back home, trying to shake the conflicting emotions the kiss had left with him, he had noticed the panda crawling beside him, trudging along with great difficulty. Now he was content to be carried while Yao ranted.

“I don’t understand what came over me, aru!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never done anything like that before! I’ve never kissed another country, much less one I hardly know! Besides, I still don’t know if I can trust Ivan. No one knows anything about him, aru. In fact, you probably know more about him than I do, Panda. Where does he keep hiding you?”

Panda lifted his loosely screwed-on head, oblivious.

“But I guess he does have a good heart, aru. I mean, who can be afraid of a country who likes _sunflowers_?” At this, he felt his expression soften, his chest filling with a tender longing. He made the rest of his journey in silence, savouring the feeling, the newness, the warmth, the slight ache of it.

Before he knew it, he had reached his house. With slight reluctance, he set Panda down on the dirt. He crouched down to bid the cub farewell, but it had already lost interest; a nearby cluster of bamboo had caught its eye, and it padded in that direction. Yao brought a hand to his chest in mock offense, then laughed it off. Pandas were notoriously fickle creatures.

His voice died mid-laugh as he stepped through the door. Though he’d only been here for a single night, Ivan’s absence was practically tangible. The ache in Yao’s chest expanded, becoming a hole that seemed as vast and empty as his house.

Startled by his own change in mood, Yao headed to the kitchen, hoping to find something in the pantry to distract him. But the remnants of last night’s dinner were still laid out on the table. With another twinge of loneliness, Yao sank into a nearby chair.

He felt drained, yet restless, and wanted nothing more than to stop feeling altogether. It was becoming clear to him that he was craving opium, which he had been trying all morning to forget about. His ever-shifting emotions were a torturous itch, and last night he had quite literally destroyed any hope of scratching them.

Suddenly, the room swerved violently. Nausea clawing at his throat, Yao leapt to his feet and stumbled frantically towards the nearest bathroom. He was just barely able to reach the toilet before his stomach contracted violently, emptying its contents into the sink. His vision grew dotted and smudged at the edges, forcing him to grip the side of the counter. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and grimaced; he hadn’t been able to bring himself to look at his reflection in months.

“I’m a wreck,” he announced to no one in particular, stating the obvious. He wiped away the acidic residue at the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, but it did little to improve his appearance. His face was colourless, his cheeks noticeably more hollow. His hair was still pulled back into a braid, but it was matted and unkempt, loose strands sticking in every direction. His eyes were sunken, framed by dark shadows, as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. He wore the face of an old man, frail and worn. The face of a country who would crumple from a single punch. “No wonder it was so easy for England to defeat me.”

He felt a sudden surge of disgust, not towards England, but himself. _Take a look at yourself, Wang Yao, and tell me you still believe that you didn’t put yourself in this position. The other countries have moved on, grown stronger, surpassed you, and all you do is cling to the past while your strength withers away. You’re pathetic._

A flash of metal caught his eye. On the side of the sink, a dagger sat, its shine dulled by a layer of dust that had coated its surface. He had once fought with it, but now only used it for the occasional shave. He picked it up, the curves and bumps of the engraved handle familiar against his skin. A bladed weapon would be of no use to him now; what was he going to do, go up to gun-wielding English soldiers and threaten them with a knife?

With a sigh, he put the dagger back down, defeated, yet strangely relieved. It was not his nature to fight.

_Even Ivan pities you._

The thought flew at him unexpectedly, the weight of it nearly knocking Yao off his feet. Trembling with anger and lacking an outlet, he seized the knife again, pressed the blade against something, and gave into the impulse to cut.

A chunk of hair fell to his feet. Freed from his braid, the strands sprawled across the wooden floor like feathers plucked from flightless birds. Eyes widening, his eyes shot back to the mirror.

His hair now fell unevenly to just below his shoulders. Yao moved his thumb along the choppy ends and marveled at the new lightness at the back of his head. The man looking back at him in the mirror seemed younger, more alive somehow.

And Yao felt different, too. He had been forced to wear that braid, a symbol of yet another lost battle, for centuries. Now, though the ache in his muscles prevailed, the overwhelming sense of powerlessness had vanished, replaced by intense resolve. His hand was still gripping onto the dagger, so he lifted it and studied the blade. No, perhaps it was not his nature to fight, but it was his duty.

It had been his duty to protect his people, and he had failed. But the Opium Wars were not the first time he’d fallen, and they would not be the wars that kept him down for good.

It was time for him to make amends.

* * *

The next day, Yao returned to the city for the first time in—how long had it been? Months? Years?

His people condemned him at first. Yao had expected as much. They shouted at him for neglecting them for so long, and Yao let them, because it was what he deserved. But at the end of the day, they fell into his arms like children, and Yao made them a promise. No matter how bad things would become, he would never abandon them again.

A few cups of _baijiu_ later, it was almost as though no time had passed since Yao’s last visit. They were old friends, gathered around a table, laughing, bickering drunkenly, poking fun at one another. Their festivities were coated by a layer of shared sorrow, but they suppressed it by downing another glass.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Yao saw a flash of silver. He whirled around, and just like he had thought, there was Ivan.

In his drunken state, Yao became aware that the Russian looked almost statuesque in his beauty, with soft features carved from marble. His eyes were vivid bursts of colour, fastened to his pale complexion like cuts of purple jade. When he met Yao’s eyes, he smiled, and everything about him seemed to emit a warm glow, clashing with the aura of cold that clung to Ivan like a ghost. His was the kind of beauty poets would sing about.

What happened next was a blur. Looking back, Yao could vaguely recall waving Ivan over and offering him a drink. He remembered the Russian marveling at the similarity between _baijiu_ and vodka, emptying the final contents of the bottle into their cups. He remembered the two of them leaving the place together, gripping onto each other for balance. After that, everything came to him in fragments: Ivan’s flush cheeks, his arms, his lips, and how the suffocating heat mingled with the coolness of his skin.

The flashes of memory came to Yao when consciousness returned to him the next morning, and he found himself in his bedroom not alone, but nestled against Ivan’s bare chest, tangled in blankets and sweat.

Yet despite the foggy but telling details of what had occurred last night, Yao didn’t feel a trace of regret. He buried his face in the crook of Ivan’s neck, smiled when he felt Ivan’s heartbeat quicken, and went back to sleep.


	7. Reunion

Perhaps they had moved too quickly. A tender kiss in the woods one afternoon, a flood of alcohol-tinted passion the following night. Ivan was hit by a wave of relief when he found out that Yao remembered just as little of the night before as he did, but that relief was tainted, for whatever reason, by a trace of disappointment.

But he was growing attached to Yao—frighteningly attached. Slowly but surely, his obsession was being moulded into something else, a feeling to which Ivan couldn’t quite assign a name, a desire that caused the Russian a certain degree of unease. And the more time he spent with Yao, the more that feeling would grow.

Yao was unlike anyone Ivan had ever met. Perhaps it was his endless patience and obstinate optimism. Perhaps it was the little things: his cooking, his stories, his laugh.

So Ivan kept coming back to him. On some evenings, the two of them would lie sprawled on top of the bed of grass outside Yao’s house. Yao would let Ivan rest his head on his lap and absentmindedly weave his fingers through strands of woven silver while Ivan observed the stars with childlike intrigue. Yao would point out constellations and recount the legends behind each one, and Ivan would remember them all.

“You shouldn’t get too confident, aru. I don’t know that I love you yet,” Yao had warned testily on one such evening. He had felt Ivan tense slightly and immediately regretted his words. But when Ivan finally responded after a long silence, he had done so with unusual patience.

“That’s okay,” he had said. “There’s plenty of time.”

The truth was, Yao had only said what he’d said because he did know. A week later, he announced to Ivan that he had changed his mind.

“I do love you,” he had confirmed, sampling the phrase tentatively before deciding that he liked the sound of it. He repeated them, and knew with certainty that he hadn’t made a mistake when he saw Ivan’s face light up with childlike delight.

That night, Ivan had stayed over. Now officially and certifiably in love, the couple did what they actually considered _making love_. Without the tinted fog of inebriation that usually shrouded their most intimate acts, it was awkwardly, embarrassingly imperfect.

But occasionally, their eyes would meet, and their adoration and desire would mingle, amplifying one another and building into a current that would overwhelm their senses. Those fleeting moments of perfection made everything worth it. 

* * *

The next couple of weeks saw Yao at the happiest he’d ever been. He began to put effort into his cooking again. He’d spend hours upon hours pulling noodles by hand or frying sweetened dough to make sesame seed balls. Ivan reminded him constantly that he didn’t have to do all this, that he loved him for more than just the food he made, but Yao insisted. “I haven’t had someone to cook for in decades,” he said. “So really, you’re doing me a favour, aru.”

And in any case, Ivan wasn’t about to complain.

And for those couple of weeks, Yao and Ivan stayed enclosed in a bubble made of butterfly kisses and infatuation. In that bubble, summer seemed to go on forever. Not once were their afternoon walks or midnight stargazing cut short by rain.

Then, on the night Kiku came back, the rain came crashing down all at once. 

* * *

For a moment, Yao simply stared, dumbfounded, while his little brother stood in his doorway for the first time in...too long. His clothes were different—he had abandoned the robes Yao had sewn for him, opting instead for a military uniform that resembled the clothing of the west. Yao had heard that Kiku had spent time with other nations, of course. France, America...those were the first nations he had met with when he opened his borders again, so of course he would be more westernized now. But Yao couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal, or perhaps resentment, that Kiku had gone to _them_ first instead of coming back home.

But he was here now, and that was all that mattered.

It took every bit of Yao’s impulse control to keep from embracing his brother. He didn’t like to be touched, he knew, so he did all he could to keep his arms at his side. “Kiku! What are you doing here this time of night?”

The rain was coming down in sheets now, drenching the Japanese soldier. Kiku showed no discomfort; like always, his face was a mask. Yao tried to get a closer look at his eyes, to gauge what he was thinking, but Kiku looked away sharply. “Forgive me,” he muttered.

The last traces of doubt vanished from Yao’s face. He opened the door wider. “Don’t worry about that, aru! I was expecting someone anyway. Come in! I made _zong zi_.”

“Who were you expecting?” Kiku made no move to enter.

“Oh, just Ivan, aru. Russia,” he clarified. Kiku’s expression clouded. He opened his mouth to say something, but caught himself. Yao blinked, uncomprehending.

“So, are you going to come in, or…”

The scrape of metal made his head jerk with alarm. Kiku was reaching for something at his side. His katana. He never used to carry it with him. _Why carry a weapon unless you know you’ll have to use it?_

Realization hit Yao too late. The blade was unsheathed now, pointed directly at him. He heard himself speak and cursed himself for sounding so piteous. Then the steel tore through skin, sending searing pain down the length of Yao’s back with undeniably calculated accuracy, and Yao fell.

He must have cried out. He must have. But what had he said? Had he unleashed curses upon his traitorous little brother? Had he pleaded for him to stop? Or had he simply asked _why_ , voice raw with more anguish and hurt and grief than a nation his age could bear?

He couldn’t remember, and perhaps that was for the best. All he knew was Kiku had left him there, a bloodied heap crumpled in the doorway. He never did set foot in the house, as though showing that bit of decency would keep his integrity intact. 

The house was empty again, but the air remained heavy with the scent of untouched dinner and the echo of the only words Kiku had left behind. 

_Forgive me._


	8. An Unspoken Vow

Yao sat numbly at the foot of his bed, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes squeezed shut, quivering to the drumming of rain on the rooftop. That was how Ivan found him when he returned. He would not speak, would not respond to Ivan’s questions, would not even look at him. And after a while, though it was extremely unlike him, Ivan stopped asking.

Instead, he tended to Yao’s wounds. When he was small, his big sister had taught him how to treat sword gashes like Yao’s, how to bandage the cut to stop the bleeding and how to keep the wound from corrupting. It was a painful process, no doubt, but Yao didn’t flinch. He let Ivan strip the torn clothes off his bloodied back and sat there limply as Ivan cleaned and wrapped. He barely seemed to notice the Russian’s presence.

When Ivan was done, he sat down next to Yao on the bed, the mattress groaning under his weight. He watched the trembling nation for a moment, searching for the right words to reassure him, but as usual, they did not come.

So instead, he simply wrapped his arms around the smaller nation and held him, doing all he could to make him feel warm and protected. He pressed his lips to Yao’s temple, his forehead, his tear-stained cheeks, whispering words of comfort into his ear. Half of what he said was in Russian; he knew Yao couldn’t understand a word of it, but the knowledge of Ivan’s presence seemed to calm him. His trembling slowly subsided.

For hours, they stayed like this. Eventually, Yao would break down into tears. He would turn around, cling to Ivan’s shoulders, and bury his face in the crook of his neck. Between sobs, he would choke out semi-coherent words, muffled by Ivan’s scarf. Finally, Ivan was able to make out a few of them.

“Ivan...Ivan, promise me…”

“Yes, _solnishko_?”

“Promise me you’ll never betray me.” His voice was muffled by Ivan’s scarf.

“Yao, you have to tell me who did this to y—”

“Just promise me!” Abruptly, he pulled away. Lightning flashed briefly, slicing into the darkness, illuminating Yao’s wet, shimmering eyes, fixed upon Ivan in brilliantly intense chiaroscuro.

“Okay, okay, I promise.” Afraid that Yao wouldn’t believe his sincerity, Ivan lifted his little finger. “I’ll even pinky-swear.”

Looking back, Ivan would realize with horror that it had been Japan who had taught Yao about the pinky-swear. But if Ivan’s gesture had upset Yao at all, he gave little indication. With a soft, watery laugh, he pushed Ivan’s hand aside. “It’s alright, aru. You don’t have to.” Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to the Russian’s in a salty, tearstained kiss. “Ivan, I’d believe anything you say.”

* * *

When Yao decided enough was enough, he wiped off the tears he had shed and rose abruptly to his feet. “I made some _zong zi_ ,” he announced shakily. “You came all the way here to visit me. I’m not going to make you watch me cry all night.”

Ivan, having not the faintest idea as to what a _zong zi_ was, went along with it. It turned out to be sticky rice, wrapped in reed leaves. It would also turn out to be delicious, but that was no surprise.

Yao did not say much for a while. He picked up two _zong zi_ from the wooden basket, handed Ivan one of them, and went to the kitchen. The two of them ate without speaking; Ivan lacked the words, and Yao lacked the energy. Finally, the latter broke the silence.

“I thought some food would make me feel better, aru. It usually helps me forget, but...I guess things are different this time.” The taste of blood in his mouth was too potent, the sting in his damp eyes too painful, the slash on his back too fresh to be forgotten. “I used to be prideful. Arrogant. Maybe that’s why this happened, aru.”

Ivan looked up from his plate. “What do you mean?”

“I used to be young, I think. I can barely remember it, but...yes. The First Emperor called me to his court thousands of years ago. I must have been young then, aru. ”

Yao sometimes launched into seemingly unrelated stories of his past, especially when he would rather not think about the present. Ivan didn’t mind much; the stories fascinated him. Still, his mind was much too occupied with trying to figure out how Yao had gotten hurt, and it seemed like Yao wouldn’t tell him anytime soon.

“He was obsessed with being immortal, that Emperor. I can’t imagine why, but that’s humans for you, aru.

“He knew me; I had been serving in his court since he was a boy, and now here he was, nearing the final hour of his life, and I hadn’t aged a day. How could this be possible? he wondered. How could it be that he, the man who had built China himself, could not be immortal with his empire? How could it be that I could?

“He asked me as much, so I told him, aru. What did I have to lose? I told him I was the living embodiment of his country. I told him I had celebrated its victories and shed tears for its failures, shouldered its hardships and tended to its wounds, since long before he was born. I told him that I _was_ China, and that I would live as the empire lives and die as it dies.” Yao felt his throat tighten a little. He coughed. “I’m not boring you, am I?”

The way Yao had spoken evoked an image in Ivan’s mind of the winter day they’d first met. Suddenly, he remembered Yao’s immense strength, his hard-earned wisdom, and his iron will, all of which he had grown so accustomed to hiding behind a lazy grin. Now, Ivan remembered the Wang Yao he had once idolized. “No,” he whispered. “Go on.”

“Alright.” Yao’s expression softened as he continued. “When I was done talking, the Emperor stared at me for the longest time, speechless. And I said to him, ‘That is why I will live forever.’”

Yao paused. He saw Ivan’s face, wide-eyed with admiration, and felt something catch in his throat.

“But I’m not sure about that anymore,” he said hoarsely.

“What are you saying?” Ivan’s eyes widened with alarm. “You’re still China, _da._ Of course you will.”

Yao shook his head. “I might be China, but...I’m far from strong now. When England first attacked me, I thought, well, conflict with the European countries is bound to happen. I’ll recover, and when I do, I’ll be as strong as ever. But when…” His voice trailed off.

Ivan tensed, inching forward in his chair, but said nothing.

After several attempts, Yao finally spit it out. “But when Kiku attacked me today, I was completely unprepared, aru.”

Ivan blinked. “ _He_ was the one who did this to you?” The Honda Kiku who Yao had raised from a micronation, to whom Yao had taught everything he knew, who Yao had treated like a _brother_ …Ivan’s eyes flashed with a cold fury that, for a split second, made him look like a stranger.

“It was bound to happen, aru. I should have been more careful. But I hadn’t seen him in years, and I thought he was just—” He cut himself off, fighting the urge to succumb to tears again.

He felt Ivan’s hand rest on his bare shoulder. It was cold. “There’s no use dwelling on the past, _solnishko_.” Though his tone remained tender, there was a hardness to Ivan’s gaze. “He’s not your little brother anymore. He may have broken your heart, but it’s up to you to pick up the pieces and keep living, _da_?”

Yao stared at him for a moment, astonished. For a moment, it seemed like he would succumb to tears again. Instead, he nodded. “Do you have vodka?”

With a smile, Ivan produced a flask from his coat pocket. “Always.”

Yao took it and drank. It burned, but he relished the sting. He was drained now. The shock, the anger, even the sadness had dried up with his tears, leaving only bitterness inside the empty cave of his chest. Bitterness was different from anger, from heartache; bitterness had a taste, one that clung to the back of his throat, and it seemed that only the sharp cut of alcohol could distract from it.

As Ivan watched the Chinese nation with a mixture of worry and fascination, he couldn’t help but glance at the bandages wrapped around his waist. He remembered the wound, the depth of it, the unfeeling precision with which it must have been cut. Wounds like this, he knew, would not heal over time. Sure, the skin would scab over and the pain, too, would fade eventually, but when Honda Kiku had brought his sword down on Ivan’s beloved, he had carved onto his back a scar that would remain as long as Yao would live.

And Yao would live forever.

Ivan would make sure of it.


End file.
